


Promises and Stolen Hearts

by Akiko_Natsuko



Series: BixFreed [26]
Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Distance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hallucinated Death, Hallucinations, Home, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memories, Not Really Character Death, Promises, Sick Character, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24022726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko
Summary: Their last parting had been hurried, a frantic brush of lips through the open window at the back of the house, Freed breathing heavily, blood trickling from a gash on his cheek, and the shouts and heavy tread of the guards drawing ever closer. If he closed his eyes he could still feel the warmth of Freed’s lips on his, still hear the whispered ‘I love you’ and promise to come back, before the kiss had ended and the Thief had gone, not stealing away in the night like usual, but charging straight towards where the guards were coming from. Leading them away from Bickslow, painting a target on himself, just to protect the man whose heart he’d stolen, and who had stolen his heart in turn.
Relationships: Bickslow/Freed Justine
Series: BixFreed [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1188712
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3
Collections: Fairy Tail Rare Pairs Week 2020





	Promises and Stolen Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of sequel to [Thief in the Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16561469)
> 
> Please note that if you want to talk to me about my fics and writing, or anime/shows/games in general then you can now find me on discord [The Unholy Trinity](https://discord.gg/6sSddAWa5c).

_Four Weeks, Three Days, Nine Hours and Twenty-Seven Minutes._

Bickslow knew that it was ridiculous to keep count, to keep turning and looking at the clock he’d made hanging on the workshop wall, or the calendar he had scrawled on scrap paper once he’d realised that this waiting game was going to last longer than usual. It didn’t stop the numbers from stacking up, an ever-present awareness of just how long it had been since he’d seen Freed lingering in the back of his thoughts.

It didn’t help that their last parting had been hurried, a frantic brush of lips through the open window at the back of the house, Freed breathing heavily, blood trickling from a gash on his cheek, and the shouts and heavy tread of the guards drawing ever closer. If he closed his eyes he could still feel the warmth of Freed’s lips on his, still hear the whispered ‘I love you’ and promise to come back, before the kiss had ended and the Thief had gone, not stealing away in the night like usual, but charging straight towards where the guards were coming from. Leading them away from Bickslow, painting a target on himself, just to protect the man whose heart he’d stolen, and who had stolen his heart in turn.

_“You should have been a thief too,” Freed had whispered, eyes suspiciously bright the first time they had whispered the true depth of their feelings. Bickslow had been offended for half a second, before he had seen the flicker of fear that Freed had tried to hide from him, jolting as it had dawned on him that this was the first time that Freed had let someone this close. That he was trusting a part of himself to someone else, despite the dangers, the fear that he couldn’t entirely hide. Risking himself in a way that didn’t involve magical traps, or weapons or the bounty on his head, but was a thousand times more dangerous for it, and unable to speak, breath catching on the sheer weight and worth of this trust he was being given, Bickslow had gathered Freed close and kissed him._

_I’ll keep it safe; I’ll keep you safe…_

He wondered if Freed knew the promise, he had made that day, sealed with a kiss. Probably not. Even now, after half a year together, Freed was still caught off-guard by the simplest things in their relationship, like the fact that he now had a place to store his belongings – what few he had that didn’t need to continually be carried with him, and weren’t stolen – in Bickslow’s home. The day that Bickslow had shown him the empty drawers, the space in the wardrobe, Freed had been quiet and almost shy, unable to tear his gaze away from the other man, as though he thought that this was all a dream. Weeks later, Bickslow had still caught him checking the drawers as though expecting everything to have disappeared by the time he visited and saw the wonder and awe at finding them right where he had left them, lying next to Bickslow’s belongings as though they belonged there.

_A promise I couldn’t keep…_

Bickslow thought, grumbling as his thoughts took a darker turn and he glared down at the wooden doll that he had been working on all morning, somehow unsurprised to see that it bore a faint resemblance to a certain thief. He would need to start over he realised, glancing at the plans spread out in front of him, somehow doubting that the little girl or her mother would appreciate a Freed doll. Cursing under his breath, he picked up the doll but hesitating, knowing that he couldn’t throw it out, no matter how dangerous it might be to keep and instead he moved across to the other workbench. Glancing suspiciously at the window, as though expecting to find guards pressed up against it, waiting for him to slip up. There was nothing there, and it was light enough that he trusted that, as he ducked down and put his shoulder against the workbench and pushed it back just enough to expose the hatch underneath. Another furtive glance at the window, and he opened it, shaking his head at the sacks stored underneath. He had never looked inside, but he knew that he had a fortune lying hidden under his floor, one that would see him in a jail cell for the rest of his life if not worse if it was ever found.

_“This is my fault.” Freed’s voice was barely above a whisper, and somehow more potent for it, as Bickslow turned to look at him, wincing as the movement pulled on the cuts and bruises littering his body. Freed was never quiet, which was something that had amused Bickslow no end considering what his partner did for a living, so that was the first sign that something was wrong. The second was the self-loathing and blaming in those four words, emotions that were reflected in the blazing turquoise eyes that met his for a moment before darting away, and in the fact that he hadn’t yet recovered the colour that had drained away when he had first set eyes on Bickslow._

_“No, it isn’t,” Bickslow said firmly. Technically he knew that it wasn’t true. If Freed hadn’t broken in that first night, they might never have met, and come to this point. But that was too simple. It ignored the fact that Bickslow had made a choice to help him that day, that he had fallen just as hard and fast as the Thief had, or that he could have spoken up when the guards had broken in to question him earlier. A simple word. A confession. He could have ended it all. Instead, he had been quiet, taking the pain without hesitation. “I could’ve stopped it. Hell, with everything I know about you, and that…” He gestured at the hatch he had built just to hide Freed’s secrets from his – their – enemies. “I could have given them more than enough to spare myself.”_

_“Then, why didn’t you?” Freed’s voice trembled, and that was the only thing that stopped Bickslow from snapping at him, although it was a close won thing because he was tired and in pain and wanted nothing more than to curl up with his partner and forget that today had happened. Instead, he staggered to his feet, biting back a groan as he knew that it wouldn’t help his argument if Freed knew just how much he was hurting right then, and instead closed the distance between them before the Thief knew what he was doing. For all his irritation, Bickslow was gentle as he reached out and cusped Freed’s face in both hands, forcing him to look at him._

_“Because, keeping you safe was more important to me,” Bickslow whispered. “Because I love you…”_

Bickslow shook his head and carefully lay the doll on top of the sacks. Maybe one day he would look, and finish that doll, but for now, it was too much. Too much of a reminder of what was missing. Still, he lingered for a moment, looking at the physical evidence of the secret his life had become. That day when the guards had come to question him after someone had reported seeing someone that matched Freed’s description in the area. Something neither of them could understand as Freed was always cautious and Bickslow had never found an answer too – had been the start of a subtle shift between. Freed who had always been careful around him and his home, at odds with the recklessness when he was working, had become almost paranoid. Taking every measure and then some to make sure that he never brought anyone near Bickslow again. More than once, even forgoing a prize in order to protect Bickslow or taking risks, that had left him bloodied and bruised much to the Carpenter’s frustration.

Part of him understood. He knew that he wasn’t cut out to be part of that world. He was happy in his workshop, in the life he had carved out for himself, and there was only so much he could do to protect Freed and himself. Another larger part of him hated it. He had promised to protect Freed, and yet all he could really do was give him a home, and patch up the wounds that seemed to get worse and worse, and hope and pray that each time the Thief left it wouldn’t be the last time that he saw him.

_I love you._

Words that meant everything, and yet so little, and were all that he had to hold onto at the moment. That frantic whisper against his lips, along with the promise to come back before Freed was gone. It wasn’t the first time he had been gone this long, but before; Freed had always found a way to get a message to him to let him know that he was alive. A small, poorly done carving, etched with runes, usually spouting some line of poetry. A note with nothing more than his name in Freed’s scrawl. A loaf of his favourite bread, or a cake from the bakery waiting innocently on his doorstep. Little things to let him know that Freed was safe and thinking about him.

This time there was nothing.

It was as though Freed had disappeared off the face of the earth, and as much as Bickslow tried to reassure himself that the Thief would be fine. That he was too quick and clever to have been caught, the fear was a constant now, a tightly wound ball that rested above his heart, swelling with each minute, hour and day that crept by. The only comfort he had, and it was a small one at best was that there had been no announcement that Freed had been caught, and he was almost certain that the guards wouldn’t pass up the chance to declare their victory over the Thief if it happened. Almost. Because, just because they didn’t have him, didn’t mean that he was safe. He could have been injured and trapped without help. He could have been caught by any of the people he had stolen for or from and held unknown to the guards.

_He could be dead._

The workbench shook as he shoved it back into place with more force than necessary, as though he was trying to push that thought away. He had been able to on the first day, but not now. Now it settled in his chest, another thread wrapping around the ball of fear, darkening it, turning it to terror.

_Freed, where are you?_

****

_Five Weeks, Six Days, Four Hours and Eight Minutes._

Bickslow was unravelling.

His workshop lay abandoned, a layer of dust already settling over the tools and plans, unfinished projects lying where he had left them. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t find any comfort in the wood that had always been his solace, his sanctuary. Every time he tried, he would see Freed’s face, hear his voice, soft with wonder and affection as he watched the Carpenter working with curious eyes. _I wish I could make things like you;_ Freed had told him once after a particularly lousy heist where he had nearly killed somewhere, the almost blood staining his hands haunting him. That had been the first time Bickslow had kissed him, trying to chase the ghost away, to show Freed that he didn’t need to be any different for Bickslow to love him. To this day, he wasn’t sure how successful he had been, remembering the nightmares that had haunted the Thief for days afterwards.

_Freed, do you realise how much I need you? How scared I am?_

He thought, staring out of the window again. The weight and pressure in his chest were unbearable now, the ball of fear, so large that it felt as though he could barely breathe. It was matched only by the heaviness in his eyes, the days or was it weeks now without proper sleep getting to him, but he couldn’t sleep. Closing his eyes meant facing the nightmares, his mind more than happy to play through the fears that he fought so hard to keep at bay during the day, the nightmarish outcomes that his waking mind couldn’t comprehend because he knew that he would break if it did. Shatter, and keep shattering, until there was nothing left for Freed to come back to.

If he was even coming back…

If he wasn’t….

_Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it…_ As though to mock him, his mind conjured up a vivid image of Freed sprawled on the ground. Bloody and far too still, the lips that had smiled so easily and been so warm against his, left in a final startled exclamation. _No. He’s not…He’s not…_ Bickslow knew that it was a lie, a trick of his traitorous mind, and yet he couldn’t breathe, the ball having grown so large that it was smothering him. _He’s…He’s not…_ He couldn’t breathe, pressure building, a burning sensation in his throat.

_Freed…_

There were tears on his cheeks now, a burning chill against suddenly feverish skin. _Freed…_ He tried to close his eyes, to banish the image his mind had conjured with the memory of Freed’s lips against his, warm and alive, whispered words of love and a promise. It didn’t work. Instead, the memory wavered and shifted, becoming something new and monstrous, as the whispered ‘I love you’ became a broken noise, the kind that heralded the end of life, and Freed was falling backwards, metal protruding from his chest, blood soaking into his front.

“No…no…no….” That hadn’t happened. He knew it hadn’t, and yet he could see it so clearly. Could almost taste the coppery taste of blood that bubbled up in the corner of Freed’s mouth as he fell.

_No…_

There was blood in his mouth he realised, mind focusing just enough to realise that he had bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood in an attempt to pull himself out of the image. He licked at it, pressing on the cut, trying to use the pain to ground himself. Instead, it twisted another memory – the pain of his beating at the hands of the guards rushing back to him. But this time Freed was there, storming in, eyes flashing and desperate to protect him. Not caring that he was outnumbered or moving into an enclosed space where they had the one thing that could genuinely harm him – Bickslow. There was a knife at his throat, holding him in place and threatening, and he saw it, the way Freed’s eyes darkened before his jaw set. The decision made, as his weapons dropped to the floor and his fury was contained, hands held out in supplication. Unmoving, eyes locked with Bickslow’s as he mouthed an apology before another knife, another hand, drew a crimson line across his neck and then he was falling, as limp and lifeless as any of Bickslow’s puppets when the strings were cut.

“FREED!”

There were hands-on him now, holding him back, stopping him from getting to Freed. He didn’t care who it was, or that they would probably kill him for his relationship with the Thief, all he could see was Freed bleeding out on the ground in front of him. Because of him. Dead because he had loved him too much, and Bickslow had been unable to protect him. “Let me go to him! You can do what you want afterwards…. please…I can’t let him die alone.” He was begging now, pleading with everything that he had as tears rolled down endlessly down his cheeks. He knew that it wasn’t going to be enough, that he had nothing to offer them now, even the secrets in the hatch in the workshop were worthless compared to Freed, but he didn’t care. He had to try, he had to get to Freed, to make sure that he wasn’t alone even if it was already too late.

To his surprise, the hands released him, letting him fall forward, all the strength gone from him. He felt the impact with the ground but didn’t’ register it, crawling forward, fixed on the image in front of him. _Freed, I’m…_ he reached out, fingers shaking, stretching and brushing on nothing. He fell forwards, and the image disappeared, and he barely caught himself before his face could collide with the familiar wooden floor of his kitchen. _What? Where is he? Where is Freed?_ Everything was too hot, and he couldn’t breathe, and wait…wasn’t terror supposed to be cold, the ball in his chest had been making him shiver for days, but now he was burning up, far too warm. Was he angry? Yes, he was furious that Freed hadn’t come back and kept his promise, that he hadn’t been able to protect Freed even though he had sworn that he would over, raging against those that had and could have hurt the Thief and…

Cold hands gripped his cheeks, pulling his face up and he blinked, breath catching as Freed’s face swam into view, and he keened, a soft, broken noise. Because this Freed was unbloodied and beautiful, nothing but a still-healing wound on his cheek showing that he had ever been anything but fine. However, his expression belied that, because Bickslow had never seen that expression on his partner’s face before. Horror and fear, as though he had seen his worst fear realised, and not sure what was going on, confident that this was just another trick of his mind, Bickslow reached for him, wanting to chase that expression away even if it was an illusion. He expected his hands to close on air again, despite the hands on his cheeks – still much too cold – and his breathing hitched when instead they felt the soft, strange-chill of the body in front of him.

“F-Freed…?” It couldn’t be. He wanted it to be. _It isn’t him…_ He couldn’t let himself believe, not again, not after everything that had happened. Unaware that his thoughts were bubbling up and spilling forth in a soft, broken whisper, that made Freed’s face crease in sorrow. Bickslow saw the shift in expression, and despite himself, he curled his fingers into the front of the other man’s clothes. “I’m here. You’re not alone…” He whispered, remembering the overwhelming need to let Freed – not Freed – know that he wasn’t alone at the end. He had been expecting relief, or acceptance, not for Freed’s expression to crumple further and a sound that was much too close for a sob for comfort to bubble up. “Freed…?”

Warm lips. Just like the ones in his memory, but much more real pressed against his, stealing away his words and breath, and he closed his eyes, wanting to cling to the sensation even if it was a lie. “I love you,” Freed whispered against his lips, pulling back just enough to speak. “And I came back…” Bickslow blinked. Those weren’t the words in his memory, the urgent promise that he would come back, opening his eyes just in time to see Freed shake his head with another soft sob. “No, I came home…to you. Please, Bickslow, I’m here…I’m really here.” There was a desperation to those words, as though he had said them more than once.

As though this was real…

Bickslow frowned, eyes widening, as comprehension slowly formed. Barely daring to breathe, sure that he would shatter if this was another trick of his mind, he lifted his hands and pressed them against the hands holding his face. Freed’s skin was still cool – or maybe he was too warm? The heat was still there, burning him up from the inside out, and now that he was paying attention, he realised that the gentle touch was a balm against that heat. Trembling, he ran his fingers over Freed’s, feeling the familiar sword callouses, the scar that ran along the back of the left one from where Freed had been a little too slow when he was younger.

Familiar.

Solid.

Real.

“Freed?” He asked uncertainly, wanting to believe and Freed gave a watery laugh, before leaning in and pressing their heads together – something he had always done when he’d come back from a job that had been a little too close, taking a shaky breath as he nodded. “Freed…” Bickslow whispered, a little surer, a little more hopeful, as he reached out and brushed his fingers over Freed’s cheek, lingering over the healing wound, remembering how the blood had trickled from the cut the last time he had seen it. “It’s you…”

“It’s me,” Freed murmured, in the same strangled voice with which he had blamed himself when Bickslow had been hurt by the guards. “It’s me. I’m so sorry, Bickslow. I’m…”

“Why are you apologising?”

“This is my fault,” Freed replied, echoing the words from long ago, and he was trembling too as he finally moved his hands, fingers moving to brush away the tears that Bickslow hadn’t even realised were still falling down his cheeks. “If I hadn’t stayed away so long…” Bickslow shook his head, still not fully understand, still too hot, but finally starting to believe that this was real, knowing that his mind could never conjure up the depth of emotion in Freed’s voice and eyes that he was witnessing.

“It’s not your fault.”

“You said that last time too,” Freed looked just as confused.

“And I was right then too,” Bickslow pointed out, actually startling a chuckle out of Freed, even if it was a little too hysterical at the edges. “Freed…” He reached out, pulling his Thief closer so that he could lean against his chest, pressing his ear close so that he could hear the beat of Freed’s heart – a little too fast, as though he had been frightened, but strong. Alive. Bickslow smiled. “You came back,” he whispered, before tilting forward, as he lost consciousness as Freed’s arms rose to catch him.

****

_Five Weeks, Seven Days, Two Hours and Forty-Two Minutes._

Freed let out an exhausted sigh as he pressed his hand to Bickslow’s forehead and cheeks, relieved to feel that the terrifying heat from the day before was finally fading away. His partner was still too warm, but it was no longer the dangerous inferno that had threatened to steal him away. He let his hand linger for a little longer, before gently replacing the freshly dampened cloth over the forehead, still creased from the dreams or rather nightmares that had plagued Bickslow throughout the night and closing his eyes. He had seen a lot in his years as a Thief, had come close to death more times than he cared to count – and far more than he would ever admit to Bickslow – and yet nothing had ever terrified him as much as slipping into the house, just in time to hear Bickslow sobbing and screaming his name.

The sound had ripped open a wound that wouldn’t start to heal until Bickslow was awake, and able to look at him without the fever distorting everything and see that he was okay – shaken, hating himself for the worry he had caused -but alive. The sight of Bickslow toppling forward, reaching for a dead ‘Freed’ that only he could see in his fevered state was a memory that would haunt him for a long time. It had taken him so long to get through to him, and each sob and broken word was etched into his mind. If he’d still harboured any doubts about how Bickslow felt about it, they had been crushed, ground to dust and then rubbed in these new wounds for added effect, because the other man had sounded… no, he had been shattered, just at the thought of losing Freed.

_And I gave him no reason to believe that I was coming back._

Guilt was an old companion, a familiar taste in his mouth. He felt it every time he brought danger to Bickslow’s life, or even if it brushed a little too close for comfort. Added to it, with each sleepless night and worried expression he gave his partner. But now it burned in his chest, raw and aching, a sickening sensation that threatened to steal his breath and left him wanting to flee and never look back, to make sure that he could never hurt Bickslow again.

It had been to close that day. He had got careless, starting to let himself believe that maybe he could do this, that he could have both worlds, and he had nearly lost it all. It had never been a question of which was more important, he had fully expected to die that day when he had broken all his own rules and rushed straight towards the guards rather than away, drawing them away from the one thing he should never have stolen. A heart that he had no right to claim, and yet couldn’t give back. He had been ready to die, to burn the guilt to the ground. To let go of the hopes and dreams, the future he should never have allowed himself to think about, all to protect Bickslow.

He’d come close.

If he shifted wrong, he could still feel the burn of his injuries, the bandages hidden beneath his clothing. A good thing, as he wasn’t sure what that would have done to Bickslow. At first, it had been his wounds that had kept him away and stopped him from leaving a message. He had been lucky, but he could barely move, and even if he could, he couldn’t sneak in and out as he usually would, and with the guards on high alert, he refused to do anything that would point suspicious eyes at Bickslow. As the days became a week, and then a fortnight, and he started to heal with a little assistance from an old friend, he had longed to come back if only to leave a message and steal a glimpse of Bickslow. He had even made it to the edge of the neighbourhood before he had asked himself what the hell he was doing? Had he learned nothing? If he could lead the guards to Bickslow, once, twice… and however, many other times Bickslow hadn’t told him about, then he would do it again, and their luck could only hold out so long, and so he’d run.

Run fast and far, trying to put as much distance as possible between them, to bury his heart and everything he felt for Bickslow under the dust he kicked up in his wake. It hadn’t worked. Every moment was counted, a weight in his chest, a longing so strong that it had felt like he was dying as he fought against it. If he had stolen Bickslow’s heart, then the other man had completely consumed his. It was terrifying and wonderful in equal measure, a feeling he had never thought he would feel. It had seemed impossible that he would ever find someone that could accept who and what he was and love him all the same. Bickslow was….

_Everything._

It was why he had come back, ignore the small voice that had whispered that he was putting them both in danger, the guilt that had coated his tongue when he remembered the promise he’d made to come back. He’d known that he’d stayed away too long, that he had hurt them both, but not like this…never like this… his heart was in his throat again, choking him, mocking him for what he had done, as he looked at Bickslow. He could see the strain in his partner’s face, lines that hadn’t been there before, shadows that betrayed the fact that he hadn’t been sleeping, and then there was the fever and the terror that it had invoked. The terror that he would never have felt if Freed had been there when he had first fallen ill. Hell, he might not have fallen ill if Freed had come back sooner. All of it gnawed at him, leaving him feeling sick and wanting to bolt.

He didn’t move.

 _You came back_ was the last thing Bickslow had said to him before passing out, almost giddy at the realisation, clutching Freed as though he was the only thing in the whole world that could stop him drowning. As though nothing else mattered, apart from him coming back…coming home, he corrected, remembering the wonder that had greeted that word, the joy and relief, undimmed by the fever and confusion.

Home.

He’d dreamed of having a home for so long, and he wasn’t sure when he’d realised that this was home, the word having caught him by surprise when it slipped out. It wasn’t just the house where he had been given shelter, a place to leave his mark, a place where he could be himself without judgement. It was the man in the bed, who had stolen his heart, and given his own in return and continued to give it. It was Bickslow, who saw him as more than a Thief, and yet knew that was part of him and accepted it and loved him just as it was.

It was Bickslow who was watching him with dazed eyes, and a slow smile that was creeping across the too-pale face.

“Bickslow!” He jolted forward before he had even thought about what he was doing, drawn to the other man like a sailor called to sea by a siren, catching himself just before his fingers could brush against Bickslow’s cheek. He wanted to touch, to soothe the crinkle that had formed between Bickslow’s eyes, but he was frozen in place, unable to move or breathe. Did he have the right to reach out? To long for this, after he had stayed away too long. _This is my fault,_ he still believed that for all that Bickslow had forgiven him again.

“Freed…” It was a whisper of sound, a faint echo of Bickslow’s usual voice, but it was an anchor, drawing Freed out of his whirling thoughts and back into the present just as a warm hand engulfed his and pulled him close. He managed not to wince as it tugged on old wounds, unable to resist as Bickslow drew him in until both their hands came to rest over his chest. Bickslow closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, the minute stretching into two and three, and Freed was just starting to think he had dozed off again when Bickslow’s eyes opened and found his. Tired, but coherent, the flush of fever still there but receding. “You came home.”

“I promised,” Freed whispered, guilt and love warring for control, and Bickslow must’ve seen something in his expression because he found himself being tugged closer. Falling onto the bed beside him, a strangled gasp slipping out, and he knew that Bickslow must’ve heard it, because the other man was gentle as he pulled Freed into his side, the Thief unable to resist, feeling the tremble and lack of strength in his partner’s arm.

“You did,” Bickslow agreed, once Freed was pressed against him, head resting against his shoulder, their linked hands now trapped between them, locking the Thief in place. Tilting his head just enough to press a kiss to green hair, squeezing Freed’s hand, before adding in a deceptively soft voice that brooked no arguments. “That’s all that matters.”


End file.
